


Bizarre Love Triangle

by spooky_bee



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Geralt has two hands and this is the big brain solution, M/M, Multi, OT3, Open Relationships, Roach is a dog in this one, jaskier accidentally becomes internet famous, oh my god they were roommates, this is the dumbest thing i've ever written please indulge me, very very minor Yennefer/Triss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22656595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spooky_bee/pseuds/spooky_bee
Summary: r/relationships Top posts (This Week):"I (25m) just moved to a new city and have been looking to sublet a flat. I found a perfect one that is in my price range, but it's currently occupied by an incredibly hot couple (~30m and ~30f) and I have a bad habit of fucking my roommates and making everything weird. Also they are, like I said, a couple. I think. I’m pretty sure. ANYWAY. This place is perfect, but I don't know if I can stop being a slut long enough to make it work. What do I do?"Jaskier is broke and needs a place to stay. Geralt and Yennefer have a room to let. This might be the best thing that’s ever happened to him if he can keep himself from ruining everything.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 10
Kudos: 45





	Bizarre Love Triangle

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title, “Jesus Forgive Me, I Am a Thot” by JPEGMAFIA.
> 
> Actual title from the New Order song of the same name, because Obvious Choice Is Obvious. Chapter titles are also from Bizarre Love Triangle, because I make the rules around here.
> 
> Also I know that Yen is canonically super jealous, but mom said it’s my turn to write the fanfic and in this one we’re in a world of blissful post-monogamy where everything is copacetic.

_There's a concept album in here somewhere_ , Jaskier thinks, sitting across a massive, gleaming coffee table--which was itself situated inside of a massive, gleaming flat--from an elegant man who was likely somewhere in his mid-thirties, and was very likely a drug lord. 

Jaskier doesn't know this for sure, but he likes to think that his poet's soul (and history of getting himself into sticky, occasionally dangerous situations) has made him a good judge of character. The man has a severe, greased-back haircut, very expensive-looking clothes, one very tasteful face tattoo, and a gigantic flat with practically no furniture in it in a bustling part of the city. The room Jaskier had looked at, coupled with its centralized location in a trendy neighborhood, should have made the rent exorbitant, but when he sat down with the man to discuss it, the rate he offered was suspiciously low. 

Even though he's broke and would love being walking distance away from a hundred hipster bars who may even pay him to play music there, there's a feeling in his gut that he may wind up being an alibi, or potentially collateral, and he doesn't feel emotionally prepared for that. So, regretfully, he turns the room down.

He prepares a track list for the hypothetical concept album about the Rooms He Decided Not to Rent while he sulks back to the subway station:

  1. Basically a Closet
  2. Decent-Sized Room, but He Was at Least Five Years Older than the Girls Who Were Subletting It, and He Didn't Want to Replace Someone's Disowned Sorority Sister
  3. What Used to Be an Office, But Was Now a Guest Room Because a Woman Had Recently Gotten a Divorce and Alimony Wasn't Going to Pay the Other Half of the Rent
  4. Other Flatmates Were Yoga Enthusiasts (Not the Sexy Kind)
  5. Other Flatmates Were Tea-Totalers
  6. Other Flatmates Were Militant Vegans
  7. Other Flatmate Was an Experimental Noise Producer (He Can't Compete with That)
  8. Room Was Reasonably Priced, but in a Far-Flung Neighborhood of the City Populated Only by Heterosexuals with Babies
  9. Flat Had No Washer or Dryer (He Will Not Compromise on That)



And now, track 10: Other Flatmate Is Probably a Drug Lord, and Will Probably Kill Him.

Jaskier is young. Sure, he's closer to thirty than twenty, but he's still young and cool and hot. He just really hadn't expected people to couple up so fast. People that had previously been happy (or at least willing) to have roommates were suddenly very adamant about needing their private space to have long, emotionally vulnerable chats and think up baby names, or whatever people in long-term relationships did. And when he did manage to crash with a good friend, he had a nasty habit of being so overwhelmingly attractive and charming that they just couldn't help but want to have sex with him, and Jaskier was a good friend, so he obliged. But then they either felt uncomfortable about it later or wanted to date him, neither of which were viable options, and he was back to the drawing board.

This was how he had piddled away two years in Oxenfurt after graduation. He played in bars at night--which was not ever enough to live off of, but he was sure his big break was right around the corner, any day now, really--and supplemented his income with whatever gig economy app was big that week. He'd done it all: walked dogs, delivered groceries, filled out surveys. But while there seemed to be an infinite number of apps out there willing to pay him peanuts for doing hours of menial labor without the hope of ever achieving benefits, he was rapidly running out of friends who were willing to let him stay on their couch.

Which is why he figured it was time to branch out, move somewhere different, try something new! Well, that and he had once again made the mistake of fucking his roommate, and now she wanted him out by the end of the week. Jaskier was a big fan of Omens and Signs, deeply into the idea that the universe had great plans for him, because he was important, and very handsome, and incredibly talented, so why _wouldn't_ the universe have great plans for him? And having finally fucked or ran afoul of his entire list of friends, acquaintances, and business associates (he had been intimately familiar with probably half of the bartenders and dog-walkers in Oxenfurt at this point), this seemed as good a time as ever to make the big move.

So Jaskier gathered up all his personal effects (not much aside from a guitar, several garishly-patterned shirts, at least five pairs of skinny jeans that were Just This Close to being too tight, and a laptop), bought a train ticket, and booked himself into an Air BnB in the city center with a firm limit of seven days before someone else was due to stay there. There really was nothing like a hard deadline to motivate oneself. That was how Jaskier managed to graduate (albeit in five years) while simultaneously pickling his liver and making himself a nuisance at any party that would have him by drunkenly slurring out "Wonderwall." There were fewer of those deadlines now that he was (nominally, at least) an adult, but the stakes were higher: if he didn't figure something out in the next two days, he would be, effectively, homeless, and he had sabotaged his relationship with his parents sufficiently by now that if he didn’t hack it in time, he had a feeling they would be less than sympathetic toward him.

Back at the Air BnB (which is weirdly huge and mostly empty, decorated with the kind of furniture and decor that usually wasn't seen outside of an IKEA showroom), Jaskier once against sits on the bed, laptop in front of him, nervously tapping his fingers against the lid. He had been so excited to be out of university, to no longer have to worry about homework and essays, or about appealing to his parents. He had his degree, as his parents had requested, and now he could be free to pursue his music full-time. But now that he was here, he found himself thinking longingly back on a dorm room that had already been paid for, and roommates who would care (even if only a little) if he lived or died. 

The thought is giving him a stomach cramp, so he anxiously bounces over to the fridge and removes a White Claw. He shouldn't be spending money on non-essentials like booze, but he would like to point out that it is, currently, very essential, in that a mildly alcoholic can of fizzy water that vaguely smells like grapefruit is currently the only thing separating him from an honest to God, frothing-at-the-mouth breakdown.

After a steadying sip, Jaskier feels mostly confident that he can return to Craigslist without shrieking like a banshee out of sheer anxiety.

As he expected, a lot of the people he’s already seen are still there. Maybe he should stop being so picky. Pickiness is the kind of luxury given to people with options, and he is quickly running out of those. 

However, after a bit of scrolling, what appears to be a new listing catches his eye. 

“Seeking flatmate ASAP. Rent is negotiable. Must not be allergic to dogs.”

The wording is terse, but not necessarily any moreso than your standard Craigslist post. It doesn’t immediately give off any serial killer vibes. Plus, Jaskier is very much a fan of the rent being negotiable. He has few marketable skills aside from a great ass and an ability to make a catchy hook out of basically anything, but he is an excellent negotiator, which is to say that he’s a grade-A bullshit artist. After all, he didn’t get a BA in literature because he’s got the soul of a scholar. If there’s a chance that he can talk the rent on this place down to a point where he doesn’t have to constantly play triage on whether or not he’s going to be evicted or starve, he wants in.

He scrawls out his best, most genuflecting email of interest, and then, as if he had just messaged someone vastly out of his league on Tinder, he immediately turns off his laptop and proceeds to try and keep himself busy while waiting for a response. He finishes his White Claw, he tries to work on a new song he had started about the tortured, angst-filled path of being a working musician, and gives up, returning to some old standards. After all, he’s no idiot. Most people don’t tip him for playing his original stuff. They tip for playing requests. He’s a verse and a half into “Iris” when his phone buzzes and he nearly drops his guitar.

It’s a response from the poster. “I’m home. Can you come look at the place right now?” Jaskier is pretty sure the Goo Goo Dolls’ back catalogue isn’t going anywhere, so he says of course and receives the address of the flat. Just to improve his chances, he changes into his most sedate shirt (long-sleeved blue button-up with little white flowers, so small you would think they were polka dots unless you got close), the one he wears when he plays at bars frequented by Baby Boomers. He checks his face, his hair, and reapplies his deodorant to fight off the stench of despair before heading to the train station.

The flat isn’t far enough out of the heart of the city to qualify as suburban, but it is far enough out that the usual din of the city has quieted down to a dull roar. There are people out walking dogs and not pushing strollers, which is a good sign, and there is greenery everywhere, trees and bushes and other kinds of foliage he didn’t realize he missed. The only problem is, he doesn’t see any flats. There are lots of townhomes and, wonder of wonders, actual houses: single-family dwellings, the kind of thing you shouldn’t be able to find in a city this size. Jaskier thinks he might’ve gotten off at the wrong stop, so he double-checks the address and is forced to reevaluate his mission.

According to the address he had been sent, the flat he was meant to look at was actually a townhome, the kind of place he could never afford to live in right now, and a handsome one at that, with a brick facade and plenty of windows. The rent had better be _very_ negotiable, because otherwise he was back at square one, again, and was wasting valuable time window shopping when he should be finding a place to actually live.

But he had already committed, and the primary renter knew he was coming, so he couldn’t just not show. Well, he _could_ , but he would feel like a dick, and he had changed clothes and caught a subway and the sunk cost fallacy was forcing him to follow through, even if it didn’t pan out. (His father would be quite proud to see him following through on his plans, he thought, if his father spoke to him, and if he was following through on something prestigious and lucrative, like law school, and not trying to find a single place he could afford to live in while pursuing a probably ill-conceived music career.)

Nervously, he climbs the stoop and tries to give the door what sounds like a businesslike knock: three quick taps, no-nonsense. After a few nerve-shredding moments of silence, the door opens and Jaskier finds himself face-to-face with a dog.

Whether because he had just imbibed a 5% ABV hard seltzer or because the anxiety was taking a toll on his critical thinking skills, Jaskier thinks for a brief, embarrassing moment that he is going to be subletting from a German shepherd.

”Roach, please,” comes a melodious voice, rich with the kind of posh, plummy accent Jaskier heard all the time back at uni. The voice sounds wealthy, educated, and when Jaskier looks up to see who it belonged to, he sees that it is coming from the most beautiful woman in the world. “You mustn’t frighten off our guest. He might be your new roommate.” The phrasing of that would be worrisome if Jaskier were capable of coherent thought, but he feels as if he’s been clubbed over the head by a sledgehammer. Shining black waves of hair frame a face that Jaskier could only describe as enchanting, and peering out from that face are two startling, violet eyes. Not the cheap color you could get from contacts, but genuine violet, and those genuinely violet eyes are currently looking at him like he’s an idiot, which is fair, because he certainly feels like one right now.

”I take it you’re here to look at the room?” she asks when it becomes abundantly clear that he cannot currently speak for himself. He nods. “Lovely. Well, come on in. Don’t let Roach scare you. She’s only ever sent a couple of people to the hospital, and they both deserved it.” He tries not to think about that as the dog dutifully moves out of the doorway to let him through but refuses to quit looking directly at him. If this is the woman's way of vetting potential flatmates, it’s certainly effective.

”Interesting name, Roach,” Jaskier says, finally managing to locate his voice from where it had run off to.

The woman rolls her eyes, shutting the front door. “I know, but I didn’t name her. I would’ve given her something more dignified.”

”Is she not your dog?” 

The woman considers this, quirking her mouth into a thoughtful moue. “I suppose she’s something like my adopted daughter.” Jaskier continues to become more and more perplexed, but the woman doesn’t seem to notice or care. She extends a hand, tipped in impeccable nails—long, black, and filed to a sharp point—in Jaskier’s direction. “I’m Yennefer, by the way.”

”Jaskier,” he says breathlessly, shaking her hand with more vigor than is likely wanted or necessary. “Well, my friends call me Jaskier. My actual name is—“ Hand still held hostage, Yennefer looks painfully bored. Jaskier lets her go and cuts his story short. “Never mind.”

She gives a small, indulgent smile, like you would give a child who had done something they thought was very impressive, but was actually sort of pathetic. “Well, have a look around. I’ll go grab Geralt so he can chat with us.”

”Geralt?” Jaskier asks. “Is that another dog?”

Yennefer gives a small, bright laugh. “Only sometimes. The rest of the time, he’s the other person who lives here. Wouldn’t quite be fair if Roach and I got to make the decision on our own, would it?”

The listing didn’t say how many other people lived there, but judging by the size of the townhouse, he can’t really be all that surprised that there was another person. As she saunters off to fetch this Geralt person, Jaskier tries to figure out what that means. “The other person who lives here” didn’t exactly drip with intimacy, but unless this Geralt was gay, he couldn’t really imagine any living man who could feel attraction toward women being able to live with Yennefer and not drive themselves into an absolute fit over it.

Jaskier ponders this as he surveys the townhouse’s ground floor. It has gleaming hardwood floors, the kind Jaskier hasn’t seen since he still lived with his parents. He had resigned himself to a lifetime of cheap rental carpeting, so watching the boards reflect the sunlight coming through the windows is enough to make his gut twist with nostalgia. He yearns briefly for the alternate timeline where he had acquiesced to all his parents' demands and gotten an MBA or something equally dull and safe and was currently getting fat in a corner office somewhere instead of hoping that the sheer amount of instant ramen he ate in a typical week wasn't slowly giving him gout. He shakes the thought away, because the life of a starving artist is a noble one, and he knew about the suffering it entailed well before he ventured into it.

The kitchen is sleek and modern with an island (an island!) and a surprising lack of grime or dishes. It looks as if it’s never been used, and it has one of those modern, magnetic cutting boards affixed to the wall where a row of gleaming kitchen knives winks in the sunlight. The place has the beautiful, unlived-in feel of a soundstage set, like there is an audience waiting somewhere, ready to laugh on cue when the other shoe drops and Jaskier makes (more of) a fool of himself.

There is also a staircase leading to a second floor, but it looks like there are two bedrooms on the ground floor. Jaskier isn’t sure what to make of that, either. Jaskier assumes that the room for let is upstairs, but three bedrooms seems like a lot for just a couple to keep to themselves.

”Alright, seems like we’re all here,” Yennefer says, emerging from one of the bedrooms. Jaskier has to prevent himself from making some sort of horrible, embarrassing noise, because standing behind Yennefer and Roach is, somehow, the most beautiful man in the world.

 _Maybe I’ve passed out_ , Jaskier thinks. _Maybe the drug lord from the last flat murdered me, and this is my brain excreting DMT right before I die and giving me a brief glimpse at heaven before I'm dragged down to hell to atone for all of my sins_. But Jaskier likes to think that if he really were dying, his brain wouldn’t dream up two absolute dimes who only seem capable of looking at Jaskier like he's a stupid baby. Or maybe it would. Maybe this is some weird kink that Jaskier is going to have to grapple with now. _Great_. 

”Geralt, this is Jaskier,” Yennefer introduces. “Jaskier, Geralt.” Geralt looks like his day job is modeling for the covers of Viking-themed romance novels. He looks like a skinny nerd’s D&D character, meant to overcorrect every flaw the player who dreamt him up ever had. If all his features were taken into account on paper—hulking physique, white-blond hair pulled into a little ponytail, all black ensemble—he would’ve sounded ridiculous, but instead Jaskier finds himself, once again, completely dumbstruck.

Looking at both Geralt and Yennefer at the same time makes his head hurt, like he’s staring at the sun. No two people that physically attractive should be allowed to exist, and they _certainly_ shouldn’t be allowed to exist in such close proximity to each other. If they weren’t fucking, it would be a crime against humanity.

Jaskier has never felt more bisexual than he does in this moment, and he is, in fact, bisexual all the time.

”Hi,” Jaskier squeaks. He is torn between two completely incompatible urges to melt into nothingness and to shoot his shot with both of them in the worst way imaginable. He is only saved from himself by Yennefer asking “Shall we show you the room, then?”

 _Oh yes,_ Jaskier remembers. _I’m here about a room._

He follows them both up the stairs, Yennefer rattling off a constant stream of charming, one-sided conversation and Geralt being silent and intimidating next to her.   
  
At the top of the stairs is a small bedroom and a small bathroom, essentially making the second floor its own separate flat. 

“It isn’t anything fancy,” Yennefer says, ridiculously, because this is nicer than anywhere Jaskier ever thought he’d live (until he was rich and famous, of course). “But it’s got plenty of privacy, if that’s your sort of thing. Not that you’d need it, really. Geralt and I are hardly ever home, so you’ll have your run of the place most of the time.” The thought of having this entire townhouse to himself would be enough to scramble his brains if he weren’t currently also being held at the whims of some vengeful fertility god, forcing him to stare at two overwhelmingly attractive people while also trying to consider complex issues of personal finance.

”Travel a lot for work,” Geralt says, breaking his silence. He’s got a voice that sounds as if it’s coming from deep within the earth, so low that Jaskier can practically feel the vibrations of sound it emits. It is absolutely unfair that on top of looking like a sexy medieval warrior, he also sounds sexy. No one person should have access to that much sexy.

”What do you do, Jaskier?” Yennefer asks. Jaskier grits his teeth. His answer, while not unusual in the city, doesn’t exactly inspire much confidence in his ability to make rent. But “musician” has a greater air of credibility to it than “gig economy slave,” so he’ll take his chances.

“I’m a musician.” Yennefer’s elegant eyebrows raise, but Geralt’s expression remains as stoic as ever. “And trust me, I know what you’re thinking, but I always make rent. I’ll do whatever I have to.” Realizing the implications of what he said, he amends: “Within reason.”

”Right, well, it’s no business of mine how you make your money as long as you make rent,” Yennefer says. “Which, about that. Here’s what we were thinking.”

Jaskier laughs at the number Yennefer offers him. He can’t help it. As a joke it isn’t very funny, considering that he’s both emotionally and economically vulnerable at the moment, but how could she be doing anything other than joking? For a place this nice, they could easily be charging twice as much, even as far out from the city center as they are. Plus, with two flatmates as hot as Yennefer and Geralt, he’s pretty sure that could be factored in as a utility and they could charge extra.

When neither of them break character, though, Jaskier finds himself back in his usual state of confusion. “I...not to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but that number just doesn’t seem right.”

”Shall you explain, or shall I?” Yennefer asks.

”By all means,” Geralt responds.

Yennefer sighs. “Look, we’re hardly here. We’re mainly looking for someone to make sure the place doesn’t burn down while we’re gone. This isn’t really a money thing.” Looking at the house--and at Yennefer, who radiates the word "expensive" from every pore, what with her glossy hair, acrylic nails, fashionable clothes, and the general air of aloof annoyance at the world that only people with money can exude--it’s clear that money isn’t really an issue here. But it still feels kind of stupid to not charge more for a gorgeous room in a quiet neighborhood in one of the biggest cities in the world. “And there’s the other thing,” Yennefer says, with a look that might be a bit guilty on anyone else, but mainly comes off as being coquettishly bashful. “Geralt?”

”We need someone to watch Roach.”

Jaskier makes eye contact with the dog. He knows that German shepherds are supposed to be quite smart, at least as far as dogs go, but he’s never met a dog before who somehow manages to look at him with contempt. It’s a little unnerving.

”I’m pretty sure that counts as indentured servitude.”

Neither Yennefer nor Geralt seem particularly bothered by this accusation. 

“And subletting is explicitly banned by the terms of our lease,” Yennefer says with a shrug. “If you don’t like the terms, we’ve someone else who is coming to look at the place when you leave.”

Taking care of the dog is one thing. The dog is kind of scary, but Jaskier has walked more dogs than most people will ever see in their lives, including scary ones. That’s really not the issue at hand, here.

The issue at hand is that Jaskier isn’t sure he could survive living here. The fact that Geralt and Yennefer said they were rarely ever there was heartening, but the thought of bumping into one of them in the kitchen, or taking out the trash, or doing laundry, is enough to nearly send him into a fit of apoplexy. Because the fact of the matter is that there are two wolves inside of him: one wolf that understands he is very soon to be homeless and needs somewhere to live, and another, infinitely hornier wolf that isn’t sure it could contain itself when forced to live in close quarters with the world’s two hottest people. If he could hardly restrain himself from shagging his friends—most of whom were, no shade to any of them, just the normal level of attractive—what hope was there for him living here? He would give himself a month at the longest before he did something so horny and stupid that he got kicked out, and then all this suffering would have been for naught.

But the place was _perfect_ , and it was close to both a train station and several bus stops, and he could actually afford to live there, even if he did have to scoop dog shit off the clock. There was really no conceivable situation where this wasn’t his best shot, but he was really starting to question whether he could pull this off without making an absolute ass of himself. After all, under much less stressful circumstances he was a master at making an absolute ass of himself. It was almost like a compulsion: as magnets of opposite polarity were attracted to one another, so was Julian Alfred Pankratz drawn to complete and utter buffoonery in the pursuit of love, or if not love, then at least getting laid. 

"Anybody home?" Yennefer asks, and Jaskier realizes that he has been having an existential crisis in real time, in absolute silence, while Geralt and Yennefer have stared at him, waiting for an answer.

"Sorry," he says, shaking his head to try and clear it and looking toward the room in question, some sort of neutral territory that is not currently trying to drive him insane. It really is a nice room: small, but cozy, and not having to share a bathroom with anyone would be excellent, because he would like to not have to negotiate shower space for his fancy soaps and shampoos with another person. The knife of his own incompetence twists in his gut. Why can't he just have nice things? Or, more accurately, why can't he let himself have nice things without throwing them all away in the pursuit of other, nicer things? "Would I be able to think it over tonight?" he asks. "Big commitment, signing a lease," he says, trying to come off as levelheaded and mature despite the fact that he has never once taken the time to think over signing a lease in his life.

Neither of his potential new flatmates look particularly impressed by this move. "I suppose," Yennefer says coolly, "but like I said, someone is coming as soon as you leave to look at it. There's nothing I can do if they're ready to sign on the spot."

"That is fair," Jaskier says. "I just need some time to think. I'll reach out to you first thing in the morning with my decision. Deal?"

Yennefer looks to Geralt, who shrugs his massive shoulders and generally looks as if he would rather be literally anywhere else than in this hallway, having this conversation. His complete indifference is intoxicating. Jaskier did always have a thing for people who were mean to him.

"Fine," Yennefer says. "If I haven't heard from you by 10 AM tomorrow, I'll assume you've decided on something else."

 _Yes,_ Jaskier thinks. _10 AM is hours and hours away, plenty of time to come to terms with myself and right all of my deepest, most inherent character flaws_. He winces to himself as Yennefer and Geralt guide him back down the stairs to the door. He has his work cut out for him.

* * *

Under traditional circumstances, this is the sort of thing you would ask your friends about, or maybe a cool older sibling or cousin. But Jaskier has no friends, no cool relatives, and currently no options, so he resorts to the last thing he still has available to him: the internet.

Jaskier, like everyone else who cut their teeth during the internet age, has been on Reddit before. But generally he has used it to find local venues that were looking for musicians, or to shill his music. Turning to Reddit for advice is a bit daunting, but if he had literally any other options, he wouldn't be doing this.

He takes a moment to think of the most appropriate venue to post his inquiry. He thinks that, at the heart of the whole ordeal, the main issue is his incredibly progressive, forward-thinking (read: slutty) approach to relationships, so unsure of where else to turn, he begins a post on r/Relationships:

"I (25m) just moved to a new city and have been looking to sublet a flat. I found a perfect one that is in my price range, but it's currently occupied by an incredibly hot couple (~30m and ~30f) and I have a bad habit of fucking my roommates and making everything weird. Also they are, like I said, a couple. I think. I’m pretty sure. ANYWAY. This place is perfect, but I don't know if I can stop being a slut long enough to make it work. What do I do?"

After a tense moment of deciding if he really wants his vulnerability handled by the usually capricious claws of the internet, he decides that he really and truly has nothing left to lose. And so he posts.

And so he waits.

As usual, he tries to keep himself busy and distracted. He tunes his guitar. He watches some Vine compilations on YouTube (the universal balm of the ravaged soul). And he drinks a White Claw.

And then another White Claw.

And then another.

Four White Claws later he is so relaxed that he can't remember what he was so hung up about to begin with. He is living the life! He is young, and handsome, and talented, and he is in the city, chasing his dream! What could possibly be wrong with this situation!

His phone buzzes. He looks to see why. 

Oh yes. A response to his Reddit post. His Reddit post asking for advice on his living situation. His living situation that is currently either a rock or a hard place (no pun intended). He readies himself for the arbitration of Reddit.

"ratbaby69: I think this is posted to the wrong sub"

He glares. "dandelion_official: If you can think of a more appropriate venue for my question, I'm all ears."

Another response is posted almost immediately.

"creepyuwu: Sounds like the start of an r/gonewild_stories post huhuhuhu"

He does not appreciate that. That's exactly what he's trying to avoid, thank you very much.

And then another:

"cloven_hoofprint: Is it really that hard to just.........not have sex with someone tho"

He has made a terrible mistake. He never should have posted on here. 

"dandelion_official: The fact that you said that means you have never been in the presence of anyone, let alone TWO PEOPLE, who are this physically attractive. You should be grateful. This is a burden I would never wish upon anyone."

Jaskier is angry, and he's drunk, and under normal circumstances he would channel this into a song of some kind, and he considers it: something jagged and angular about the fickle whims of Cupid and how he is trying to lead a noble musician astray into a life of licentiousness (as if he wasn't there already). Another comment derails his plans, however.

”enby_wineaunt: idk dude, I think you should go for it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯”

This gives him pause. "dandelion_official: Could I hear your rationale?"

The internet does not move at the speed which Jaskier would have wanted, because despite everything he has ever believed, the entire world does not, in fact, revolve around him, but after several minutes of staring, unblinking, at his phone, he gets a response.

"enby-wineaunt: i'm gonna be honest with you, friend. i'm in this for the drama, and this sounds like a fucking disaster waiting to happen."

Something twists in his stomach. He doesn't know what an "enby-wineaunt" is, but he thinks that whoever they are, they're right. This _does_ sound like an absolute disaster. But when was the last time he had written a new song, exactly? As much as he wished it weren't the case, happy times don't exactly lead to artistic brilliance. Not that he has much artistic brilliance lying around considering how miserable he's been, but maybe all he needs is a good, old-fashioned dumpster fire to get him motivated. Maybe the only thing separating him from unbelievable wealth and fame is moving into a comfortable townhouse on the outskirts of the city with two total hotties and then ruining everything.

This makes it feel as if the situation is at least somewhat under his control. If he _knows_ that he's going to fuck it up, and he has a plan on what to do in the (likely) case that he _does_ fuck it up, then it's fine. Better the devil you know, and in this case, the devil Jaskier knows is himself, so he doesn't have many other options.

He types out a response to the pixelized peanut gallery that has been helping him out through this troubling time. "dandelion_official: Thank you all for your help. I think I will go for it after all." He almost adds "After all, what's the worst that could happen?" but even he doesn't want to tempt fate _that_ badly.

He immediately goes to the text conversation he had earlier that day about the room. He isn't entirely sure if the number belongs to Yennefer or Geralt, and he can't really say who he would want to talk to less between the two of them, but he hits "Call" before he can stop himself and hopes for the best.

It takes several long rings for anyone to pick up, but eventually Jaskier hears a muffled "Hello?" that could only come from Yennefer's sleep-muddled alto.

"Yes!" Jaskier says, heart hammering thickly in his chest, beating hard against all the alcohol that is currently thinning his blood and sending it absolutely everywhere aside from his brain. "Hello! It's Jaskier, from earlier? I came to look at the flat and you said I had until tomorrow to make a decision on it, and--"

"Do you have _any idea_ what time it is right now?" Yennefer asks, voice poisonous even over the phone.

Jaskier shrivels. "Yes, well, I've been thinking on it, and--"

"Who is that?"

The voice on the other end is quiet, but so low that it makes the speaker on Jaskier’s phone buzz. He claps a hand over his mouth to avoid shouting something stupid, like “I knew it!”, because the other voice is very definitely Geralt, and if Yennefer had been asleep that means that she and Geralt are sleeping together after all. It really was terribly obvious. After all, how could they possibly look at each other and _not_ be fucking? It simply wasn't possible.

"The guy who came to look at the room today," Yennefer says groggily and with no small helping of disdain. 

"Well, what does he want?"

"He says that he'll take the room."

"Great," Geralt says, although his tone doesn't sound particularly enthused. "Can you tell him to fuck off so that we can go back to sleep?"

"Geralt says to fuck off so that we can go back to sleep," Yennefer says lightly. 

"Noted," Jaskier says, still thrumming with the nervous energy of his new discovery, having finally found a place to live, and the knowledge of the absolutely incredible catastrophe this is going to be when it all blows up in his face. Sure, he's destroyed relationships before by squeezing into the middle of things. It wasn't something he took significant pride in, but he couldn't help that the rest of the world had yet to come round to his incredibly elevated understandings about the outdated mode of relationships known as "monogamy." If they had, he probably wouldn't have been chased out of a house with a cast-iron skillet, or left to walk home completely naked. It was a minor miracle that he hadn't been booked for indecent exposure, but it had been the middle of the night. "So when can I move in?"

Yennefer groans. "I don't care, frankly. Geralt." He can imagine her elbowing him in his incredibly broad, well-defined chest. He's probably shirtless right now. Good God. "You're going to be home tomorrow, right?"

"Unfortunately," Geralt mumbles, clearly understanding what Yennefer is about to ask of him. 

"Splendid," Yennefer says around a yawn. "Geralt can let you in and all that. Now can I please, for the love of all that is holy, go back to sleep?"

"Oh yes, of course," Jaskier says hurriedly. "And thank you for the opportunity to--" The line clicks dead. 

He sinks back onto his bed, letting the weight of a job well done (or, well, a job that is at least _done_ ) hang over him. He was not going to be turned out onto the street, at least not for the time being. The adrenaline ebbing away from his consciousness, as well as the stack of empty White Claw cans sitting on the dresser, are starting to lull him off to sleep. _Everything is going to be fine_ , he thinks. _And even if it's not, it's gonna make a hell of a song_. He drifts off to a fantasy of him on a private jet, playing a guitar made of gold and mother-of-pearl as an incredibly beautiful flight attendant pours him expensive champagne.

On his phone, however, is a flurry of activity. A moment after Jaskier falls away from consciousness, a comment is posted on his Reddit thread.

"wolfangelbaby: ooooooh, can't wait to see how this turns out!!! keep us posted!!!!!!!!"

Jaskier doesn't know it now, but he very much will keep them posted, because _someone_ has to hear about this.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this says that there are 5 chapters, but that is currently more of an estimate than anything else. The total may go up or down considering that this doesn't really have a plot.


End file.
